The Persistence of Memory
by Katherine Elaine
Summary: When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. As John relives Sherlock's death day after day, he's haunted by memories he can't escape. Until, that is, he starts receiving mysterious texts that leave him wondering if he's losing the only thing he has left: his sanity. Post-Reichenbach. Implied Molly/John in early chapters; Johnlock in later chapters. Rated M for future events.


**A/N: Woo! So I've been working at this one for a couple of weeks, and I think this chapter is a little shorter than  
I'd have liked, but it's better than not having any Johnlock fic, right? This is my first attempt at writing any of these  
characters, and first attempt at writing for the Sherlock fandom as well as I've only been a part of it for a couple of  
months as of this chapter, but I'm doing my best here! Obviously, no characters belong to me, nor do I own any  
rights to the show. Reviews and messages are always welcome!**

* * *

_My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead._

John is shaken from the recollection, his vision clearing as he finds conscious thought. He stiffens as he sits up in the red armchair, looking across and up to meet the face of dear, sweet Mrs. Hudson, who gives him a concerned look. "John? Are you quite alright, John?" Her voice seems for grow clearer as John's thoughts drift back to reality.

"Mm? Ah, yeah, m'fine," John reassures her, forcing a weak smile onto his face. "Just… Lost in thought, is all." He thinks about discussing it for a moment, then thinks better of it; best not to worry the already constantly fretful landlady. Instead, he watches as Mrs. Hudson sets down a cup of tea on the end table to his right, and thanks her with a small nod. She pulls up the chair from the nearby wooden desk and takes a seat, not daring to touch the chair—his chair—opposite to John. "Saw my therapist again," John admits at last in a small voice, a kind of confession.

"Good for you, John!" comes Mrs. Hudson's cheerful tone. "What did she have to say?"

"Talked about options," John starts, "for treating the stress. She's still convinced it's post-traumatic stress disorder." And neither John nor Mrs. Hudson can blame her. He's got all the right symptoms, from nightmares to hallucinations, and it's only in the privacy of his own room of the small flat he once shared that he lets the tears fall now and then. Mrs. Hudson, bless her soul, maintains her clueless façade, but the flat has thin walls, and she hears every quiet sob.

For a week afterward, John stayed with Mycroft, unable to return to 221B Baker Street in a stable frame of mind. Even now, three months later, John feels the emptiness of the building, lacking its former character demonstrated through noise levels and body parts in the fridge. Sometimes he catches himself running his fingers over the bullet holes in the wall, or sitting down at his laptop with nothing to add to his blog, solely for the nostalgic feelings that overwhelm him. And when it all gets to be too much, he finds comfort in the presence of Molly Hooper, who opens her doors to him at any hour he's in need.

So when the tea's been sipped and cups emptied, and when Mrs. Hudson shuffles off downstairs again, that's where he heads. John bundles up a leather jacket and slips on some beat up black shoes, grabs the blue scarf off the hook and wraps it around his neck, and stands outside to wave down a cab. He climbs in the backseat, and greets the driver, who's come to be a familiar face. "Afternoon. 29 Clerkenwell Road, please." He shoots Molly a quick text to let her know he's heading over.

The driver makes small talk, ever aware of how not much ever changes with John Watson, but knowing that even a few seconds of conversation is a few seconds that steer John's thoughts away from the oblivion that was his flatmate. "Off to the girlfriend's again?" the cabbie offers as a topic.

"Oh, we're not—I mean, she's—she isn't—"

"Nonsense! Mr. Watson, you see the girl at least twice a week, and I think last week I saw you get dropped off at the hospital. She works there, don't she?"

John frowns, lines creasing deeply between the bridge of his nose and his eyes. "I'm sorry, are you… Are you following me now?"

"Following? No, just… Observing. I was dropping off another carload of 40-something women to see their mum. I'm just a friendly face, sir. Well, or the friendly back of a head to you, I suppose."

John only rolled his eyes. "She's a friend of—" A lump rises suddenly in his throat, the name stuck on his tongue like a pill he can't swallow. Instead, he changes the sentence. "Mine. I met her a couple of years ago, kind of through a friend." The cab driver doesn't ask questions. Perhaps he's only assuming which friend John meant, and John's making every effort to think of Mike Stamford as that friend, not… _him_. Anyone but him.

When the car pulls up to 29 Clerkenwell Road, John pays the cab driver and thanks him with a soft but genuine smile. He exits the vehicle, watches it pull away, and then rings the doorbell that corresponds with her flat, and waits for her girlish, nervous, "hello?"

"Molly, it's… It's John. Mind if I come up?"

"Sure, yeah, come on then."

The speaker clicks off and John walks through the unlocked door, up two bright lit but dusty stairwells and to the white door, where Molly's already got her head peeking out of the doorway. It swings wide open and she calls out to the end of the hall, "John!"

He looks up from his slow-shuffling feet, and Molly can see the tension in his face, creeping into her own expression as her smile fades. She knows this look. The first time she saw it was when John came to her right after he saw the fall. She'd held out her arms and he'd collapsed into them, heaving sobs escaping him and she embraced him, rubbing small circles on his back. Nothing needed to be said, and there were no words. This time, Molly just steps aside and lets John shuffle in, and she smiles as he does but John just chews his lip. The moment Molly closes the door, John lets go of his usual contained self. It starts with a sniffle, then a quivering lower lip, and when Molly says, "come here, John", he doesn't argue. He cranes his neck, his eyes pressed into her shoulder as his arms slide around her waist, and her arms around his back. He doesn't sob. Doesn't scream or shout or yell like the first time. He just lets the tears fall into her white cardigan and exhales nearly inaudibly.

Molly's flat is quite small: one bedroom, one bathroom, and a joining kitchen and living area. When John stays over, he sleeps on the pull-out sofa, and sometimes Molly will sleep on the slightly smaller sofa adjacent to it, but usually she's found in her room, because John talking in his sleep is a little hard to fall asleep to. The walls are white, and only the furniture keeps it from feeling too sterile. The windows in the kitchen and living room are almost wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, and they look out the front of the building. Something's different today, though. It usually reeks of perfume and cleaning products, but not today. Something is baking—no, not baking. Burning.

"Are you cooking something?" John asks, mumbling as he lifts his head from her shoulder.

"Well, yes, when I heard you were coming over, I put something in the oven. Just some—well…" She untangles herself from John and pulls out the blackening lasagna from the oven with a nervous chuckle. "Maybe I should ring something in."

"No, no, we'll just… cook something else. What've you got?"

"Er, not much. I haven't been to the shop in ages." But it's too late. John has already dried his eyes on his sleeve, slipped out of his shoes, and headed to the cupboards and fridge, looking through to find any leftovers they can turn into a dinner. He finds a cutting board and starts slicing some potatoes before passing them off to Molly, who spices them. The preparation continues like this, an assembly line of two. An hour later, they sit down at the kitchen's island counter side by side and feast on roasted spicy lemon potatoes, grilled chicken, and a variety of crunchy steamed vegetables. John uncorks a bottle and pours two glasses of a dark red wine, and sets one glass in front of each plate.

The glasses clink—"a job well done," John comments—and Molly chuckles, amazed that terminal bachelor John Watson can actually pull together a meal, and her cheeks tint themselves pink. She mumbles a small "thank you", and John smirks proudly down at his plate. They eat in silence until the meal is almost finished. "We used to do this," he says finally, his voice soft, telling a story meant only for the two of them.

"I don't remember—"

"No, I did. With—" But John doesn't finish, setting his knife and fork down as his head hangs, staring into his lap. He cards a hand through his hair, inhaling sharply and exhaling loudly on repeat to calm himself. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Molly copies him and sets her knife and fork down. She watches John for a minute, and gets up to pour them each another glass of wine. She sits down and slides her chair closer to John, her elbow resting on the back of his chair as her hand rubbing small circles on his back to comfort him. When John doesn't move, she stands and walks around to his other side, takes his hand and pulls him to the sofa. He sits, and Molly fetches the glasses and another bottle of wine. "No upsets tonight," she says. "Tonight, we're celebrating."

John, looking at his knees, turns his chin up to look at Molly. "Celebrating what?"

"Him." The blonde raises her glass and John does the same. The glasses clink again, and Molly says simply, as if it's the simplest thing, "to Sherlock."

The doctor swallows hard and squirms in his seat, wincing as if hearing those two syllables again would break him. And it might, he decides.

"Come then, John. You can say it," Molly encourages, but John shakes his head. "You can. I know you can. You'll feel better. You're strong."

Drawing in a deep breath, John's lip quivers, but with a nod, he agrees. "To Sherlock." He drinks the glass of wine down in long gulps, not surfacing for air until it's completely drained. Molly gives a halfhearted but concerned smile, and refills his glass. She grabs John's wrist as he starts to stand and says, "we'll get the dishes later." So the man takes his seat again, and stares blankly around the room. "John? John, talk to me."

"Moll, I… It's not fair," he says finally.

Molly slides across the sofa, resting her hand on John's knee. "What do you need?"

"Distraction."

So she grabs some blankets and pillows from the hall closet and piles them on the floor while John flips to an old black-and-white film on the TV with a small smile. He doesn't move much, but when Molly drapes a blanket over their laps, he drapes his arm around her shoulders, and hours later, when John lays down on the pull-out mattress, Molly stays, too. He shrugs off his jacket and lays the scarf down under his pillow.

They don't touch. They don't speak much, except for a few small jokes and laughs, and a "goodnight" from each of them. John Watson falls asleep to the soft sound of breathing, thankful for the company he's been missing.

And just before Molly closes her eyes, she swears she sees him smile.

* * *

Black mobile phone held between two pale hands, the author smirks at the words that glare back at him underneath his nimble fingertips.

The pad of his thumb hits the "cancel" button, and it saves to his drafts, where he rereads another text message that will never be sent:

**[Draft—2:21 AM September 3rd] Do you really want to sleep with a mortician? Where do you think the bodies come from? -SH**


End file.
